


Tell Me When You Hear My Heart Stop

by pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Minor Violence, Smut, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It smells of blood in the tour bus, and here, especially, in the curtained-off darkness of Harry’s bunk. (Canon compliant vampire fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me When You Hear My Heart Stop

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be longer and not just blood-and-smut but like, then it wasn't. thank you to lane like always for looking it over!

It smells of blood in the tour bus, and here, especially, in the curtained-off darkness of Harry’s bunk.

“Fuck, hold still,” Harry hisses. The jut of his bony knee shoves deliberately into the meat of Louis’ thigh as he shifts around, like Harry’s trying to pin him still.

“I _am_ still,” Louis huffs, although he isn’t, not by a mile. Even as he says it, he squirms against Harry, trying to get a leg over him. He’s been twitchy and restless since they settled in for the drive after the show, maybe even before it. His throat has felt dry and sandpapered for hours, and it’s distracting, and he can’t help but squirm from it.

Harry just shoves in harder, all strong, sharp angles, his knee on Louis’ thigh and his hand pressed on Louis’ chest holding him down firmly.

Louis isn’t sure if he could throw him off, if he wanted to. He doesn’t, anyway, but he can’t help but wonder. He certainly would have been able to before, could’ve knocked Harry to the back of the bus with a flick of the wrist, hardly an effort at all. Now he can’t guess who’d have the upper hand if it came to it. He thinks it might wind up a draw.

It shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

Harry slithers back down his body, then, arranging himself between Louis’ knees, and he closes his eyes, letting the thought slip away from him. It’s not productive, anyway, because it doesn’t matter if he could throw off Harry when all he wants is for him to be closer, nearer, deeper. He wants to hold Harry inside of his bones, keep him inside the very marrow of him.

He wants Harry to do _something_ , because right now he’s just running the ragged edge his thumb nail along the crease of Louis’ bare thigh, a purposeful, sharp line that’s deliberately not enough to break the skin. The itch in the back of Louis’ throat doubles, and he shifts again, even though Harry’s told him to be still. He’ll be still when Harry follows through on his end of it, he thinks uncharitably. 

“Are you going to do anything while you’re down there?” he snaps. His cock is hard, curved up against his hip, and he can feel his own pulse thrumming steady as a drumbeat, the long artery running up the inside of his thigh and underneath Harry’s fingers nearly leaping with anticipation. 

“Be patient,” Harry says, low enough that it almost gets lost in the rumble of the wheels on the road, the white noise of their momentum folding itself around the words. Slowly, he lowers his mouth to Louis’ inner thigh, and then just _stays_ there, his lips resting against the thin skin, breathing hotly. After what feels like ages, he moves his hand up to Louis’ cock, grips it at the same moment he opens his mouth and licks Louis’ thigh, sucking a kiss there and slowly twisting his wrist all at once.

Louis’ back arches, and he hisses, because it’s so terribly _not enough_. One of his free hands swats loudly against the wall above his head, and he swears.

Outside the bunk, there’s a shifting, the shushing sound of blankets being moved, and then a _thunk_ that doesn’t come from either one of them.

“We can _hear_ ,” Niall says despairingly from across the aisle.

“Lucky you,” Louis snaps, because Harry’s stopped moving, stopped working his jaw on the flesh of Louis’ thigh, stopped his hand moving on Louis’ cock entirely, and that’s not okay, not anywhere near acceptable, and if he doesn’t start up again soon he might scream. If Niall doesn’t want to hear it he can just piss off. “C’mon,” he says to Harry, reaching down and nudging the side of his head with a curved knuckle none too gently. “Don’t just--”

Harry just blinks up at him slowly, his eyebrows raised slightly as he peers over the hitch of Louis’ hip, and if Louis didn’t know better he’d think Harry looked placid, or docile -- like he’s somehow just found himself materialized between Louis’ thighs with a smear of drying blood at the hinge of his jaw and no idea how he’s wound up there.

Louis knows better, though. He knows Harry’s got him exactly how he wants, and that there’s nothing accidental about anything Harry does. He’s all slow deliberation, a constant set of scales balancing out exactly how to get what he wants, precisely the way he wants it.

For ostensibly being driven by an unquenchable thirst, now, Harry’s still unnaturally good at taking his time. It only sometimes makes Louis want to scream.

“Fucking -- use your _mouth_ ,” he says, tempted to haul up his free leg and kick Harry. He just -- he can’t stand this _thing_ Harry does, the languid slide of him when he _knows_ that Lou’s so close to losing it, to snapping and ripping at his hair and leveraging Harry against the nearest surface with as much force as he can manage and making him _take_ it, make him stop teasing for just a _second_.

Which is probably what Harry wants, in all honestly, and giving that to him feels like it would somehow be admitting defeat, so Louis just -- doesn’t. He grits his teeth, clenches his eyes shut for a count of one, two, three, and then opens them at Harry slowly, trying to hide the wildness he feels in the back of his throat and the space where his ribs meet.

He hopes he looks impassive and bored. He hopes Harry doesn’t know just what he’s doing to him, even though he must.

“You have to,” Harry says slowly, panting a bit. “You have to hold still. I can’t, if you don’t hold still.”

He points his tongue, then, and drags it up the length of Louis’ cock just enough to make him curve his spine involuntarily. “Arsehole,” Louis hisses, because that’s not what he wants now, even if it _is_ , even if he always wants that, and Harry bloody well knows it.

“You said use my mouth,” Harry murmurs, half of that horrible red mouth curling into a grin as he does it again, repeating the sloppy line up Louis’ cock, slower this time. Louis keeps his hips still, now that he’s prepared for it, and doesn’t think about his prick, doesn’t think about shoving up into Harry’s throat until he coughs and sputters, doesn’t think about coming on his lips and his face and then making him eat it, his thumb drawing over the curve of Harry’s chin, collecting his own come and feeding it to Harry.

He doesn’t think about that at all.

Across the aisle Niall groans again, and there’s a thud as he tumbles out of his bunk. He collects himself and shuffles away, tugging the curtain that hides the bunks from the rest of the bus shut, not that it does anything to block out sound.

Louis loves Niall more than just about anyone on the planet, but right now, at this moment, he’s got no fucking sympathy for him, because there’s only one thing he can focus on, and it’s making Harry get fucking _on_ with it before he bursts. He couldn’t give a shit who hears, wouldn’t care if Simon and his mum and a hundred paparazzi were standing an inch from their bunk and listening if it means Harry’ll just _do it_. And Niall hasn’t even got enhanced hearing, so it’s hard to muster much sympathy anyway, not when Louis can hear it every time Niall has a wank even through several closed doors and two sets of hotel walls.

Louis loves Niall, but at the moment, Niall and his ears can get fucked.

“I swear,” he whispers, tangling a hand in Harry’s hair and yanking hard, enough to get Harry’s mouth briefly off from where he’s managed to get it, now, a tight circle of heat working up and down Louis’ cock. “I swear to fucking _Christ_ , if you don’t do it I’ll _kill_ you, I will, I’ll--”

Harry’s nails dig into Louis’ thighs at that, and he laughs, low and throaty as he pulls off Louis’ cock entirely.

“Give it a try,” he says, low, the vibrations of it echoing against Louis’ skin where Harry’s nails are breaking it. “Go on, see if you can.”

Louis’ hands twitch involuntarily, like they want to clutch around Harry’s throat of their own volition, want to squeeze against his lack of a pulse point, trying to crush out something that’s not even there anymore. He wants to scream and he wants to smack Harry sharply around the face and he wants to scream even _more_ , and he thinks he won’t be able to stop himself, once he starts, and if Niall had thought the noise was bad before he’s in for an unpleasant surprise when Louis finally lets loose the terrible shriek he can feel building inside him, _God_ , and then --

And then Harry finally, _finally_ sinks his sharp teeth into the flesh of Louis’ thigh, opening it up properly in a jagged line, none of the teasing pinpricks and scratches he’s been playing at up until now. He bites down blissfully hard, the sharp points of his teeth tearing at Louis’ thin skin, opening it up like he’s a scrap of paper, ripped to bits easily. Harry licks at it, eyes black in the trick light of the bunk as he peers up at Louis, staring unfailingly as he attaches his mouth and sucks, _drinks_. Louis shouts, abruptly, arching his back nearly off the mattress, and it’s not after several more long moments of staring down at Harry, the pale skin around his mouth smeared with the black ink of Louis’ ruined blood, that he realizes he’s come, cock untouched, now lying damp and half-hard in the cradle of his hip.

The slow slug of his blood from the open wound and the way Harry coaxes it out with his tongue is better than coming, anyway, better than any orgasm Louis can remember having, so he doesn’t mourn the loss of missing it. He can come whenever he likes as it is, because Harry’s easy for it, and Lou’s even easier. Sometimes all it takes is a properly timed nod of his head to get Harry on his knees for him, sucking Louis’ cock in a far corridor of a venue, or hitching Louis’ leg over a sink in a toilet, fucking into him until he cries for it.

They don’t get to drink each other as often, though. So Lou tries to drag it out, whenever they do, and inevitably fails. He tries to savor it, he really does, but he always winds up glutting himself too quickly, no thought to taking his time. And then once enough time passes afterward he always finds himself screaming for it again, with his whole body, his whole mind, cursing himself for still not knowing how to pace himself.

Harry’s never had that problem, it seems, given how long he can draw it out, how absolutely mad he can make Louis with it. Louis’ been like this so much longer, and it frays him at the seams to see Harry apparently taking to it so much more naturally, self-possessed in a way Louis’ never been able to master. It’s galling to think that it’s only taken the two years since he’d turned Harry for him to not only match a level of control that took Louis decades to muster up, but surpass it.

And he _knows_ , logically, that it’s not that Harry doesn’t get as frantic and thirsty as Louis -- he knows Harry’s screaming for it too. Harry’s _told_ him, told him all about how his whole body thrums and sings and shrieks when he’s gone too long without drinking from anybody, let alone from Louis, how it feels like being unwound from inside in the worst, sweetest way imaginable. He tells Louis like Louis doesn’t know, and he _does_ , he knows better than anyone, but he loves to hear Harry tell it anyway. He loves to know that Harry’s just as fucked as he is, because it’s easy to forget, sometimes, when Harry seems to have all the self-control in the world, like he could take it or leave it even as Louis’ femoral artery gushes into his mouth.

Harry drinks for a long time, stretching out the moments into something slow and honeyed, long enough that Louis eventually winds up hard again (and that always makes him laugh, or nearly, how the rush of blood from a bite mark in his flesh and into Harry’s mouth is so tied up with his dick getting hard -- it seems like it oughtn’t work that way, that he shouldn’t have enough blood left in him. But then, maybe there’s a lot about it all that doesn’t make sense. He reckons he won’t question this particular bit too much).

Once Harry pulls off, he wipes his mouth, blackened by Louis’ blood, turning his teeth and gums crimson when he smiles happily up at Lou, sated and loose. He licks over the gash on the inside of Louis’ thigh, and he can feel it starting to knit back together already, the itch of Harry’s saliva putting his flesh back to rights.

“C’mere,” Louis says, his voice a bit hoarse as he feels the looseness settle into his limbs. It’s a bit like being drunk, being full up on Harry’s blood, and knowing Harry’s full of his. It makes him feel like the rigid structure inside him is collapsing a bit. It’s not the same as feeding proper, because that’s just -- business, sort of, like eating or taking a piss, something he’s got to do to survive.

Drinking from Harry, though, and more than that, having Harry drink from him -- it’s not that it’s any less crucial to his survival, really, because it _is_. Their blood is already blackened and dead, but he’s almost sure that he’d wither up faster without it than if he went without feeding on proper fresh blood. Technically there’s no need for it, drinking from your mate, and they wouldn’t starve if they held off on each other, but -- but he’s sure he would, in a different way.

The thought makes him shake his head, just a fraction, and he focuses on hauling Harry up so that he’s lying along Louis’ side, head pillowed on the curve of Louis’ shoulder. It makes Harry too long for the bunk, and he tucks his knees up so he fits.

“Feel better?” Harry asks. He’s naked, pale in the near total darkness, not that it matters much -- they can see each other plenty well. His bent legs are tangled around Louis’, and he reaches down between them to lazily stroke at Louis’ cock, big hand easily encompassing him.

“Clearly,” Louis sighs, rubbing his nose into Harry’s lank curls. He smells like sweat and salt from their show, hadn’t bothered with a shower in their rush afterward, and there’s an iron tang of blood around him, leaching up from the shrinking punctures at his neck where Louis had sank his teeth into him as soon as they’d gotten onto the bus.

“Gonna come again?” Harry murmurs, twisting his wrist easily as he asks, sending a jolt through Louis’ stomach. It’s barely a whisper compared to the thrill of putting his teeth into Harry, but it still makes him feel electrified.

“Mm, maybe,” he says, even as he can feel it building in the pit of his stomach. Harry just tightens his grip, jerking him faster, and Louis realizes that Harry hasn’t come yet. He reaches towards Harry’s cock, but the way he’s tucked up under Louis’ chin makes it just out of reach. He settles for skimming his nails along the top of Harry’s hip, and then squeezes his eyes shut a moment later as he comes, slow and molten as lava.

When he opens his eyes again, Harry’s wanking himself off at a bruising pace, mouthing at Louis’ collarbone and working his hips against Louis’ thigh. Louis scratches harder, just beneath Harry’s spine, and Harry whines low before coming with a jerk, shooting off over Louis’ thigh and up to his softening cock.

Louis’ too boneless to even think about finding something to wipe it away with, so he leaves it, curling Harry in tighter against him.

“Sexy when you threaten to kill me, y’know,” Harry mumbles through a smirk, burrowing his face into the curve of Louis’ neck. He’s still a bit bloody around the lips, but Louis can’t be arsed to clean that up, either.

Louis snorts, and flicks Harry’s stomach sharply with one finger. All the desperate fire’s gone from him now, now that he’s got his teeth into Harry’s skin and the other way around, and come twice in the process. The wild urge to choke Harry is gone from his hands, replaced by something quieter, the need to touch him no less consuming but transfigured into something gentler, less violent.

Give it a week, though, he figures, and it’ll be back.

“Looking for an apology?” he asks. He knows he’s not, because Harry’s never bothered by how it gets when they’re thirsty for each other, and really, he’s been just as guilty of saying as much to Louis in the moment, threatening to take him apart and not put him together again. Anyway, in the scheme of things, it’d been relatively tame, this time, a couple of hissed threats in as close to private as it gets for them. They’ve said worse, both of them, and broken through walls, before, when they’d been overwhelmed by thirst and Harry’d been taking too long. That’s always what does Louis in -- not the wait to get his teeth into Harry as much as waiting for Harry to get his teeth into _him_ \-- and Harry’s always known as much, happily exploiting it.

Louis knows Harry likes it, anyway, and so does he, because this is how it is, how it works -- they only let themselves be monsters with each other.

Harry just huffs out a laugh, hot and damp against Louis’ jaw. “Nah,” he says. “It does it for me, like. When you get all frantic and angry.” He rolls his hips for emphasis, smearing the cooling puddle of come on Louis’ thigh with the motion.

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Haz,” Louis says, stifling a yawn. He’s tired, now, just wants to sleep for the rest of the drive and wake up in whatever city they’re headed towards. “This is why the rest of the lads are traumatized from overhearing, y’know.”

“Why, because I‘m a horrible undead pervert and so’re you?” Harry asks, reaching down to find the blankets and arranging them up around their waists with a yawn.

“Nah,” Louis says, eyes falling shut heavily, already nearly asleep. “‘Cos I can’t say no to you.”


End file.
